‘Sally told me.’ She wiped her eyes roughly, annoyed that she was crying.
‘Are you okay?’
Kitty blocked her face with her hands. It was too humiliating to have him stand there while she cried, when before he would have comforted her. She cried about that and she cried for Constance. And she cried about everything else in between. ‘Please go,’ she sobbed.
She heard the door softly close.
With dry eyes Kitty started afresh. She went to the first name on the list, Sarah McGowan. She turned to the McGowan pages in the directory. There were hundreds of McGowans in total. Eighty Mr and Mrs McGowans, twenty S McGowans, eight Sarah McGowans, which meant she would at least have to attempt to call them all if the twenty-eight specific S’s didn’t work out for her.
She began by ringing the Sarahs. The first call was answered immediately.
‘Hello, can I please speak to Sarah McGowan?’
‘This is she.’
‘My name is Katherine Logan and I’m calling from Etcetera magazine.’
She left a pause to see if there was any recognition.
‘I don’t want to take part in any surveys, thank you.’
‘No, no, this isn’t about a survey. I’m calling on behalf of our editor, Constance Dubois. I believe she may have been in contact with you regarding a story.’
She hadn’t been. Nor had she been with six other S’s she had contacted, while two calls rang out and she left a message for another two. Kitty started on the other McGowans in the directory, hoping Sarah was listed as a Mrs Somebody Else McGowan. Ten calls weren’t answered and she made a note to call them back. There were no Sarahs in the first eight Mr and Mrs’ homes she called; on the ninth there was, but at three months old baby Sarah was not the subject of Constance’s story, Kitty quickly learned. Twenty McGowans left, not to mention ninety-nine other names on the list with at least one hundred of each name to call. A possible ten thousand more phonecalls awaited her, unless she began with the more obscure names. Kitty didn’t doubt that she could do it – nothing bored her about research – but there were two factors working against her: time and money. She simply couldn’t afford to make all of these calls.
She abandoned her work-from-home strategy and returned to the office at lunchtime. It was busy with everyone working flat out to meet their new deadline for Constance’s tribute section as well as researching and writing stories for future issues.
Rebecca, the art director, came out of Pete’s office pulling a face. ‘He’s in a mood today. Good luck.’
An unfamiliar woman was sitting in Kitty’s usual desk, which wasn’t all that rare as they had many freelance writers in the editorial section who came and went from the office. Kitty stood in the centre of the room looking for a free desk and when that proved fruitless she looked for a free phone. Pete opened the door and called her into his office.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Looking for a desk. I have a mountain of calls to make, do you think you could get somebody’s phone for me for the day? And who is that lady at my desk?’
‘You on to something?’
‘I’m going to contact the names directly to see if Constance was speaking to them. Who is that lady at my desk?’
‘How can you contact them?’
‘From the phone directory,’ she said, trying not to show that she was well aware it was a stupid idea.
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how many people are on the list?’
‘One hundred. Who is the lady at my desk?’
‘One hundred? Jesus, Kitty, that will take for ever.’
‘I’ve already worked my way through most of the first name.’
‘And? Any luck?’
‘Not yet.’
He stared at her angrily.
‘Her name is “McGowan”; it might as well be “Smith” in this country. I’ve made about one hundred calls already. Pete, what do you expect me to do? There’s no other way. I started by Googling them all and Archie Hamilton is either a clown available for kids’ parties, he works at Davy’s stockbrokers, he died ten years ago or he went to prison five years ago for assault. Which one do you think I should just guess it is?’
He sighed. ‘Look, you can’t work here.’
‘Why not?’ She looked out the window, then pointedly back at her desk.
‘That’s Bernie Mulligan. I’ve asked her to write a story in your place in this month’s issue. The Cox Brothers called, along with a few other of our major advertisers. They’ve come under severe pressure to pull this month’s advertising.’
‘Why?’
Silence.
‘Oh. Because of me.’
‘They’ve been put under pressure for months but after the court case now they feel that they can’t support the magazine without it been seen to at least reprimand you in some way.’
‘But the television network have already suspended me. It has nothing to do with Etcetera.’
‘Somebody is stirring trouble for them.’
‘Colin Maguire’s crowd,’ she said. ‘They’re doing whatever they can to destroy me.’
‘We don’t know it’s them,’ he said, but with very little energy and belief behind it. He ran his hand through his hair. It was so glossy and perfect it fell straight back into place and reminded Kitty of a Head & Shoulders commercial. For the first time, she noticed he was actually quite handsome.
‘So you’re suspending me.’
‘No … I’m asking you not to work in the office for the next three weeks while I try to convince them.’
‘But what about Constance’s story?’
He rubbed his eyes tiredly.
‘That’s why you didn’t want me to write it, isn’t it? That’s why you asked Cheryl.’
‘My hands are tied, Kitty. They’re our biggest advertisers. We lose them, it’s suicide and I can’t afford to let that happen.’
‘Does Bob know?’
‘No, and you’re not to tell him either. He doesn’t need this on his plate. That’s why Cheryl and I are here.’
‘I want to work on the story,’ Kitty said. She suddenly very much needed to do this story. It was all she had.
‘If they do as they say then we can’t publish your name,’ he said, appearing tired. ‘I don’t see a way round it.’
Kitty suddenly liked this side of him. He seemed human, not like his usual bulldog self. ‘I was thinking of writing under Kitty Logan from now on. You know, drop Katherine. Nobody but my mother calls me it anyway …’ She swallowed. Katherine Logan carried such weight, she felt embarrassed saying it aloud, self-conscious when she phoned up the names on the list, paranoid about their reaction and what they must be thinking but not saying. She was ashamed of her own name. Kitty could be her fresh start.
Pete looked at her rather pityingly.
‘Or even better,’ she fought off his pity and brightened as a new idea sprung to her mind, ‘we put Constance’s name to it. It’s her final story.’
‘We can’t do that, Kitty, not if it’s your story.’ He seemed surprised, but in a good